


The Heart of Light

by voleuse



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-11
Updated: 2004-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-09 00:45:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't have the heart to be merciful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart of Light

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Chosen, post-apocalyptic.

Spike had been searching for two months before he found them.

Truthfully, he had been expecting to find bodies.

He hadn't expected them to be the cause.

*

 

The world as they knew it ended on a Monday afternoon.

In the aftermath, Willow pinpointed the cause: A warlock in Venezuela, playing god with the weather. He wanted a rainstorm, and gave the world perpetual haze. It seemed a lark at first, what with the sky being partly cloudy, until it got worse. Darker.

Then the demons caught on, and everything went to hell.

Scattered about the world, their nascent Council was overwhelmed, bit by bit.

Spike chased them from country to country, desperate to save them all, and never succeeding.

Giles was caught, alone, in the corner of the library. Spike found his shell, and never found the vampire that drained him.

He last saw Faith jumping into a portal, wild and bloody, after a dimension-jumping demon eviscerated her latest paramour.

Willow died in a blaze of rage and witchlight, her final scream obliterating the hordes teeming over her. Spike was on the outskirts of the battle, and only survived because Kennedy pushed him out of the way. He watched the fire consume her, and felt bad for never liking her.

He was in Singapore the day Buffy died. He arrived to find an empty ocean, where Venice used to be.

He didn't cry, because he'd never be able to stop.

*

 

He found Dawn and Xander in the wreckage of Miami Beach, crouched over the bodies of Andrew and a familiar-looking slayer. He recognized the dead, first, and almost staked the undead in his grief.

Until Dawn said his name.

He opened eyes and _saw_ them. Sweet, sweet Dawn and hapless Xander.

Vampires. Innocent eyes, and blood on their breath.

Back in the day, he would have laughed. New in his soul, he would have staked them without hesitation.

Now, the world was ending, the time of mankind trickled down to ash, and he was all alone.

They smiled at him, hopeful and sharp, and his voice shuddered as he looked down at the husks of people he had called friends.

"They're dead?" He knew by the silence, but had to ask.

"Yeah," Xander nodded, smug.

Spike let his stake drop from his fingers, and turned his back. "Then drink."

*

 

They travelled ever southward, Xander and Dawn feeding liberally while Spike turned a blind eye. Listened to them moaning, drowning out the whimpers of their victims. With his silent consent, they would then disappear into abandoned buildings, or around them, and fuck until they screamed.

Sometimes they didn't bother to leave his sight. He just walked away, then.

*

 

He was lying awake in their motel room, pondering the changes made when demons ran motels, when the door swung open, and Dawn and Xander stumbled into the room, giggling, hands roving.

Instead of falling to the floor, as they usually did, they fell in a tangle onto the king-size where Spike lay. Disengaged, and Dawn flipped over onto her hands and knees, and crawled up next to Spike.

"Hey, Spike."

He glanced over, watched dispassionately as Xander stripped his clothes off, shoved up Dawn's skirt. "Dawn. How are you?"

"Cool." She squeaked as Xander thrust into her from behind. "We ran down a slayer tonight, I think."

"Good for you."

She pushed back, moaning. "Fuck." Trained her eyes on Spike, smiled. "Don't you wanna play?"

He shook his head. Watched the flex of Xander's body as he plunged into her, the twist of her mouth as she shook from the force.

After a bit, she angled her body, bracing a hand over Spike, so her breasts rubbed against his arm and chest. Gasping, she whimpered as she came, and Xander kept going.

Eventually, Spike lost count of how many times Dawn bucked against him, useless breath hot against his T-shirt. At one point, she'd ripped off her blouse, so he could see the sway of her breasts whenever she arched up, obscenities spilling from her mouth like blood.

He never moved.

They finished coupling, and Dawn collapsed with a sigh beside him. Xander smirked, covered Spike's neglected hard-on with his hand. Spike didn't move then, either, but let Xander rub against him until he came.

*

 

Xander told him, one day in Panama, that Andrew and that slayer had killed their sire. That's why they had killed them, not that they really needed a reason.

Spike smiled, sent Xander to find Dawn, who had gone out hunting on her own.

Alone, he looked at the shifting pattern of gray the sky had become. Thought about leaving them, shuddered at the idea.

They were all he had left.

*

 

One night, in the city that used to be Rio de Janeiro, he left them in search of a butcher's shop, or in the very least, an abandoned farm. Blood was always to be had, if he looked hard enough.

He returned to their newest lair, the penthouse of a former five-star. (Dawn had always wanted to stay at fancy hotels, and Xander had liked to do hollow impressions of rich people. Before.) He heard their tell-tale growls, and rolled his eyes. He indulged himself with cynicism, once in a while.

He opened the door, expecting to see them in a familiar contortion of limbs and leather. There was that, but something new as well.

Another vampire, a new fledge he didn't recognize, writhing between them.

He didn't say a word, but stepped forward with authority. Shoved them off, away from the interloper, ignoring their protests.

Staked the intruder as they watched with wide eyes, and yanked at their arms until they stood.

Xander looked angry, and Dawn looked afraid. He kissed them both, alternating, until there was nothing in their faces but want. "Never," he ground out, between kisses. "Never anyone but us." Whipped his T-shirt off, let the two of them deal with his belt, his boots, his jeans.

They encircled him with arms and legs as he tugged the dusty sheet off the bed. Fell against him as he lay down, applied hands and lips and tongue to his cool body.

Devotion filled their eyes as they fucked him, but all he had were tears.

**Author's Note:**

> Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not  
> Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither  
> Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,  
> Looking into the heart of light, the silence.  
> \- _The Waste Land_, T.S. Eliot


End file.
